‘I really am sorry.’ I grabbed Maeve’s hand.
She sighed. ‘I forgive you. But you have to buy dishwasher tablets for the next year.’
‘Deal.’ I smiled, the tightness in my chest unravelling slightly.
‘So who was Maisy?’ Isla shovelled another pancake in.
Maeve shot her a look. ‘I’ll show you as many photos from my Level matches as you like, but I refuse to spill any of Rory’s secrets. Have you thought about actually talking to the boy yourself?’
Isla gave Maeve a knowing look in return. ‘Right. Shall I go and get another round of drinks?’
I finally let myself tuck into my own burrito, making appreciative noises as Maeve scrolled through her new man’s Instagram. Even if, as she was telling me, she was pretty sure she was going to call it off before the wedding.
‘If I’m in any era, it’s 1989.’ She sighed. ‘I’m taking inspo from Caroline Webber at the moment.’
I smiled, knowing Mum would be flattered, but I was distracted again. One half of the mystery was clearer, but that still didn’t explain the late-night phone calls, or why Rory had kept things from me. Not that I could point fingers at anyone, when I really just needed to get over myself and talk to him. About work. About Link’s offer and how conflicted I felt about it. And definitely not about anything else. Not the fact that I’d wanted him to work on untying my bikini this morning rather than securing it. Especially when he’d shut the whole thing down, and I now knew it had nothing to do with Maeve. I wasn’t ready to open that box. I needed to stay firmly in my best-friend lane. But Isla did have a point; I couldn’t put off talking to him about Level forever.
***
I’d decided – mostly due to the fact that this weekend was about Isla and Joe, but also due to the massive hangover from brunch – that the sten do was off limits for any more truth telling. The rest of the morning had put the term ‘bottomless’ to the test, and I was now sure that we couldn’t face York city centre ever again. We were one of the bridal parties that made locals roll their eyes, and Isla had lived for it, adding a veil to her Lover outfit and practically jumping Joe when we’d met them at a more traditional pub afterwards. We’d had a barbecue back at the lodge, Rory burning all the burgers to a crisp and earning – what I could now tell was a completely platonic – telling-off from Maeve. My brain felt peaceful in a way that it hadn’t for what felt like weeks, the Maeve–Rory drama put to bed (even if he was oblivious to it all) and my resolve to confront Rory when we got back to London growing every minute. Things were going to be all right.
‘I’ve got a blister the size of England,’ Joe was whinging, showing off his heel to the rest of us. We’d spent this morning on a hike in the Dales, and it was abundantly clear that we were a group of Londoners.
‘You wouldn’t think that you spent most of your working hours on your feet.’ Maeve chucked a plaster at him.
‘If the A & E ward was uphill, you’d know about it.’
Isla, who was making salad for our pizza night, snorted. ‘Don’t be fooled, he asks me to rub his feet on an almost daily basis. A fate worse than death.’
All three of us wrinkled our noses respectively, Rory midway to the dining room table carrying the pizzas (delivered from the village nearby – highly recommended by Wendy in our welcome booklet). ‘It’s a good job that nothing can put me off pepperoni. Come on, it’s hot.’
We all made our way over to the table, Maeve tucking an extra bottle of rosé under her arm. Isla, Maeve, and I were already in pyjamas after a long stint in the hot tub this afternoon, and I was pretty sure I’d caught the sun on my face. I was relaxed and completely ready to load up on carbs.
Joe raised a glass and signalled for us all to do the same. ‘To Penny and Rory, for organising the perfect sten.’
Everyone lifted their glasses, Rory kicking me under the table and shooting me a smile. Against all odds, with a groom and a bride that enjoyed completely different activities, we’d managed to pull this off. And no one had been involved in a go-kart crash.
‘I’ve got a fun idea.’ Isla beamed, a slice of veggie pizza in her hand. ‘Why don’t you two do a practice run for the big day? Show us a little bit of your speech?’
I clammed up immediately. Isla did not need to know that her maid of honour had a blank sheet of paper that she carried in her jacket pocket everywhere she went.
Rory crossed his arms. ‘My speech is a thing of beauty. No need to practise.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘Me too. Can’t spoil the surprise.’
It wasn’t that I wasn’t committed to the wedding; I’d ordered a white clipboard and had asked the seamstress to give me a demo of precisely how Isla’s veil needed to be arranged. But the speech? If anything, I was now even less sure about what I wanted to say.
‘Okay, okay.’ Maeve held up her hands. ‘But when one of you gets stage fright and forgets all your lines, I’m definitely going to say I told you so.’
‘This isn’t a primary school production of Snow White, Maeve.’
She pulled a face at me.
‘Maybe not, but stage fright is a given.’ Rory spoke through a mouthful. ‘There’s no shame in wearing a nappy just in case, Pen.’
I flipped him the finger, basking in the glow of everything feeling normal. Everyone slipped into contented silence for a few minutes whilst we ate, speaking only about passing the barbecue sauce or filling up a glass.
‘We’re out of wine.’ Isla pouted at Rory, who was closest to the fridge.
He sighed. ‘When I get married, Isla, I’m going to employ you as my own personal Cinderella. Before the makeover, when she was all grubby.’
Despite his protest he ambled over to the fridge, and Isla pushed her plate away, leaning happily on her hands. ‘This has been the perfect weekend.’
‘That’s the wine talking.’ Joe pinched a crust from her plate.
‘That’ – she offered him another – ‘and the natural high of being with my best friends. Rory, what’s the hold-up?’
We all turned to see Rory leaning against the counter, staring into space.
‘What’s up, mate?’ Joe, despite being several pints in, looked concerned.
Rory was silent for a moment before picking up my phone, which I’d left on the side whilst we were eating. ‘Penny, what’s this about?’
Even though I had no idea what he was referring to, my blood still ran cold.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
He strode over, plonking the bottle of wine in front of Isla – who, sensing the mood, ignored it – and my phone in front of me. The screen was lit up with several messages.
